


Your Shipwreck Eyes, They Sing To Me

by DetectiveGreen



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Awkward Sex, Begging, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bondage, Bonding, Bulge Kink, Character Growth, Character Study, Cock Worship, Come Eating, Crying During Sex, Dancing, Detectives, Dirty Talk, Domestic Bliss, Drunkenness, Edging, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Eventual Threesome, Fantasizing, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Flirting, Freckle Worship, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Frottage, Garters, Gentle Love, Gentle Sex, Gloves, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Intoxication, Light BDSM, Lingerie, M/M, Minor Blood Kink, Minor Masochism, Miscommunication, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Oral Fixation, Phone Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Bottom, Praise Kink, Public Sex, Romance, Rough Sex, Scent Kink, Self-Harm, Sexting, Singing, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Switching, Teasing, Thirium Kink, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Trauma, Violence, Wire Play, butterfly kisses, longfic, minor petplay, petting, self-abuse, self-neglect, trauma healing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-06-07 21:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveGreen/pseuds/DetectiveGreen
Summary: After Markus' revolution freed the androids of Detroit, Connor and Hank find themselves in a sea of uncertainty about the future. In spite of, or because of everything; of the rebirth of an old world or the birth of a new one; two beings stand in a sea of snow and make decisions that affect the rest of their lives.Love settles in more comfortably than one might think, but there is always work to be done.





	1. The Shattered Surface, So Imperfect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Twitter DBH Fandom](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=The+Twitter+DBH+Fandom).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Connor meet at The Chicken Feed and evaluate where they're going next. A lot of things are left unsaid. Some things are harder to express than others, but that doesn't stop someone from dwelling. A life-changing decision is made.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Reference to Alcohol/Alcoholism, Brief Reference to Suicide
> 
> Tags Present: Slow Burn, Bonding

Hank sighed out a white cloud of frustration, the cold biting at his ears and stealing the moisture from his already-chapped lips. The air was dry and sharp, forcing him awake and stabbing his half-ruined senses. He watched his breath linger and dissipate, the cold snap being too sudden for his liking, despite not being sudden at all—he had been too focused on his on-duty mission and off-duty wallowing to notice, although he’d never admit it.

His heart squeezed uncomfortably; his gut squirmed. He hadn’t eaten anything that morning, but he still felt that heavy kind of sick, like he had consumed something that had gone off a bit too long ago and it was having a heated argument with his stomach. His eyes were sore from lack of sleep, yet another thing to add on the pile of misery; he was horrifically sober at a time when he felt he needed a drink more than anything else. His nerves were shot to shit after everything happened and then some: with Detroit very nearly up in literal flames; with his life in the hands of someone else, more than once at that; with that someone else’s life also being at risk.

**I need a drink**

_Relax, just relax._ Hank shut his eyes tight. His head throbbed.

**it’s too early for this**

Being sober made him hyperaware of everything around him, in the most unpleasant way. He couldn’t just stand outside like a normal person; everything was affecting him. And fuck enjoying the weather. He hated the way winter stuck to his joints, made him feel older than he was. His bones creaked and ached, and his hot musk did not warm him; only made his unpleasantness that much more outward, that much more public. He supposed the sticky heat of July would be worse, making him a disgusting ticking time bomb (not that anyone would get close enough to him to notice) but he just couldn’t enjoy the cold. All the same, he took the frozen silence of a ghostlike Detroit as a good thing, for just a little while, to be on his own with his thoughts.

Well, even that wasn’t a full truth. He didn’t really want to be alone at all, especially not with his own brain, but his mind was racing, and his heart wasn’t far behind, and other people would probably make it worse. The alternative was what, anyway? Being around… who? Hank sure didn’t know if being around others was the best option for him, but it was not as though he had anyone to be with right now anyway.

_Lieutenant._

No, that wasn’t true. No one was at his side anymore. The one that was… that someone was far away now. It didn’t matter if their paths crossed again. Hank knew that a new mission was their priority.

His priority. _His_ mission.

_“And I always accomplish my mission.”_

The cold bitter sting of winter stabbed through him despite his leather jacket and… generous figure. Hank felt more affected by it than he’d like, shivering from more than cold, but then wondered if he should be grateful to feel it at all. Isn’t that, or _wasn’t_ that, what the fight had been about, in the simplest of terms? Well, not that he entirely understood it. He just knew when to bow out, at least in the direction he and Connor had been heading. Learning that they were causing more harm than good was difficult for them both to grasp, in ways both too similar and too different for Hank’s comfort.

Connor’s new mission was probably joining up with Markus (that was the name of the android, right?) and being an indispensable part of the movement.

_Lieutenant_ , he could hear in his brain. That somewhat-husky, breathy voice. A voice he wasn’t used to hearing, higher-pitched than basically every man he knew, but somehow pleasant. Somehow warming, somehow like a whispered song.

And to be fair, sometimes his voice dipped low, like when they were at the Chicken Feed for the first time together

**together**

and Connor teased him with a new case, glancing away, then back at him. Waiting for him in the car. Patient.

_Lieutenant Anderson._ A voice that, at first, he was annoyed to hear; always pleasant as a sound, perhaps, but a painful alarm clock like that slap to the face that Hank assumed had to have been controlled because his jaw wasn’t broken from the impact (although it fucking hurt).

_Lieutenant._

That voice.

_Lieutenant._

Calling to him.

_Hank._

Hank drew up his collar. His stomach felt warm. His fingers did not. His head hurt. His throat constricted, and swallowing felt difficult.

The wind howled gently.

Connor’s existence frustrated him. From the beginning, he seemed like a walking contradiction. Sometimes he seemed like he truly didn’t know basic things; sarcasm took him some time to get accustomed to, and he seemed to think being an asshole was ‘ironic,’ and he had a habit of putting evidence in his mouth. All the same, Hank has seen him fight. And he’s sure there were moments he hadn’t seen that were even more amazing; Connor seemed all at once to be clumsy and graceful and it boggled the mind. He’d go from winking playfully to slamming his hands on a desk and shouting at a suspect. There were facets to him, facets others didn’t seem to notice (or care about) and Connor himself might have pretended didn’t exist. He was complex and frustrating and difficult to understand.

Hank didn’t hate it.

Snow crunched, softly, nearby. Hank glanced over, then turned to face the android. Connor looked, well, as he always did. But somehow, Hank had gotten to know him better. He could see the differences. He could see the tiredness on his face, the stress nagging his arms and legs. He could see a glimmer of anxiety and the glow of relief. He couldn’t always read Connor, and he wasn’t always good at it, but he had watched him enough to notice this much.

He had always been watching. First out of irritation—

_"Just don't put anymore evidence in your mouth, you got it?"_

then out of fascination—

_"Nice shot, Connor."_

then out of wariness—

_"But are you afraid to die, Connor?"_

then out of worry—

_"You're always saying you would do anything to accomplish your mission."_

then out of—

Hank stepped toward Connor and offered him a warm smile. Connor’s face registered a beat of surprise and then relaxed into a smile that made Hank feel that twisting again. The hug was not something he consciously decided on. It just needed to happen. He need Connor close, he needed to hold him and feel the weight of him, feel him alive and present in his arms. Connor’s arms were at his back, his shoulder blades, softer than he expected, almost tremulant, like he was nervous. But it lasted a moment before the android’s arms tightened and his hands gripped at Hank’s leather jacket. He nuzzled into Hank’s collar a little, sending Hank’s poor heart palpitating. There was a small noise, like a shaking sigh. Hank squeezed Connor by instinct and Connor squeezed back. Hank wondered if he might have a heart attack.

They pulled back, making something within Hank flip when Connor kept his arms around him, and somehow Hank’s arms didn’t fall away either.

“Why aren’t you uh, with the others?”

Connor looked up at Hank, and Hank found that he couldn’t read Connor anymore. Maybe the android did that on purpose. Maybe he knew Hank stared and didn’t want Hank to always know. That was fair, Hank didn’t want Connor always scanning him.

It was still frustrating as hell.

“I served my purpose,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Markus and his companions have everything more or less taken care of. If I’m needed they’ll message me.”

“Well, uh, what’s you plan now?” Their arms were still around each other. Hank wasn’t cold anymore. He decided there was time later that day to analyze why holding Connor made him relax so much.

Connor’s LED shone yellow briefly. “I was thinking I might still have a function,” he said after a moment, speaking slowly, almost cautiously, “working with you.”

Hank blinked. Connor noticed and the LED whirred back to yellow. And stayed that way.

“I mean,” started Connor, pulling away, dropping his arms, creating that distance. Hank pulled back as well, feeling like he had to, and the gap between them grew.

**doesn’t feel good**

The cold wind whistled between them. Hank didn’t think it was wise to cross the barrier but he didn’t want a wall to close him off from Connor.

“I know things will be different now,” said Connor, “I don’t know what you want to do now, I just…” He swallowed, looking a little panicked. The last time he was like this was at Kamski’s place. Well, not as bad as that

**yet**

thankfully. But he still looked too agitated for Hank to just stand there like some asshole.

“Whoa, whoa, hey.” Hank stepped forward, arms open. “Hey, it’s okay. Listen, you threw me off-guard, that’s all.” He realized Connor must be beginning to panic over the fact he was feeling things (although Hank had opinions on that, but he’d deal with _that_ later too) and that the most important thing was keeping Connor in the moment.

“I wanted to come back to you,” said Connor, and as if Hank’s insides weren’t already twisted enough. “I saw everyone together and you weren’t there. And of course you weren’t, it’d be illogical if you were. But I didn’t like it. I wanted you there, and you weren’t, and I knew you’d be here. I hoped you would be, anyway.”

Ah.

“Where are you staying now, Connor?”

“Staying?” Connor looked thoughtful. The LED had been yellow all this time. Hank wondered if that was bad. It didn’t feel great. “I suppose I hadn’t had the chance to give it much thought.”

“Well, uh, listen. Just for a while, until we sort things out better, you can stay at my place.”

Connor blinked at him, either unable to hide his surprise or not attempting to in the first place. “Are you certain?” he asked. “Wouldn’t I just be in the way? You seem to really value your personal space.”

Hank wondered if that was a quip. It was too early to bother figuring out. “Yeah,” he said gruffly, trying to be nonchalant. He shrugged for good measure. “Come on, Sumo whines about you. He’s only met you once and he thinks you’re going to come home with me every time I walk through the damn door. It’ll be a win-win for you and him.”

“But if it bothers _you_ —”

“Just have the good grace to accept a nice invitation. I’m being considerate, and that’s a rare thing. Take advantage of it.”

Connor didn’t argue this point, although for a moment he frowned and opened his mouth like he wanted to, but his LED shimmered to blue, and after a few moments he nodded.

“Alright.”

* * *

 

Connor fumbled a bit, unable to keep completely still. Hank was used to this, to a degree—the android always managed to look distressingly human— but this seemed, like how he looked outside, different. He looked like he wanted to talk about something (or, considering what he’d been through, a great many things) but kept stopping himself for reasons unclear to the old detective. He might be better at reading Connor but it didn’t mean he wasn’t still an enigma.

They got to the house soon enough, although Connor insisted they stop somewhere and get Hank something to eat after the older man’s stomach produced a rather shocking grumbling. Hank sighed. He didn’t want to tell Connor that he was mostly just stressed out, and didn’t know if he even could eat. He didn’t fully realize himself, of course, that the anxiety, relief, and nervousness that mixed in his empty gut were almost entirely—if not completely—because of Connor. Or rather, he wasn’t at the point where he could admit it to himself.

“I’m home, Sumo,” called Hank, striding inside on long legs and managing to get Connor past the door before the massive St. Bernard barreled down the hallway. “Were you sleeping on my bed again?” he demanded as he shoved Sumo down so he could shut the door, pushing Connor by the hip to get him out of the way. He didn’t notice Connor’s LED briefly flash yellow, focused on half-hauling Sumo back from the android and making him lie down beside the couch. Connor just stood there, watching, like a nervous and expectant new guest.

“Well, come on in,” said Hank, feeling awkward. Connor smiled a little—Hank would have to get used to that (he hoped it would happen that often)—and walked towards him, sitting down at the empty space on the couch where Hank gestured. He sat too stiffly for Hank’s liking, but he figured Connor had a long way to go before he’d acclimate. Even more than that, the air was different. Connor made himself well at home that night he found Hank on the floor but this was… well, it was just different! Besides Hank obviously being sober (and not in… that state), Connor was in a situation where he had no rules to follow. That was probably harder on him than Hank could ever realize. They’d probably need to talk that out.

Yikes.

Hank sighed and roughly slid a hand through his greasy grey hair. “Right, so. I think for now, as hard as it might be for you, it’d be best to just… be. Not worry about everything. Just for today, okay? We’ll talk more tonight if you really, really want. But the next while is going to be really rough. I’m preaching to the choir, I’m sure, but I think that with all the stress you’re gonna feel in a while, you should take today to celebrate your victory, your freedom.”

“My freedom.” Connor tasted the word carefully, looking down at his hands on his knees. He wanted his coin. _Freedom_ , he thought, pondering in silence. Hank wasn’t surprised to see the increasingly familiar yellow light. The detective allowed Connor to quietly sit there and take his time. Finally he looked at Hank. “Yes, alright. Let’s… take the day off.”

“That’s more like it,” said Hank, offering him a crooked grin and clapping him on the shoulder. “I don’t know if you know how to relax, but you should try to do that today.”

Connor’s face softened. The third smile that day was even bigger and more heartfelt. Hank swallowed roughly. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said softly. “Really, I mean it.”

“I know you do. So, uh, what would you like to do?”

“Can you show me some of your music?”

* * *

 

Connor rested against Hank’s shoulder. They were back on the couch, after Connor had gone through every CD and album Hank owned and combed through his entire mp3. Connor asked if he’d be allowed to do it again, to Hank’s surprise. When he nodded, the LED that had been whirring that goddamned yellow flickered briefly blue, yellow, blue, yellow, yellow, blue. Connor gave him a smile that seemed pensive, and a little strained. But he looked genuinely thankful. Hank held onto that.

Connor had listened—a jolt of cold apprehension at the word **obeyed** that popped in Hank’s brain made him feel nauseous—and done his best to relax. Or maybe his internal processors were running at 110% and Connor was just hiding it for Hank’s sake. Hank, in return, didn’t touch a bottle all day. He kept his focus on the android. He was a dumbass but even he knew that such a move would be irresponsible and heartless. He needed to be able to be there for Connor if Connor needed him.

**who needs who?**

The day had passed by languidly all the same. Connor looked up information on all the artists and bands, trying to engage with Hank. It had been stilted at first, but they got into a sort of rhythm eventually. Connor, by his own admission, had wanted to listen to the music again to try to _feel_ it the way Hank said he could.

“I think it’s beautiful that it has such an effect on you,” Connor had said softly, and there was a rare moment where Hank was able to consciously think, without trying to hide it from himself, _How dare you say that when we’re sitting on my bed and you’re giving me that face and looking at me with those eyes… oh, God, there’s only inches between us._ Hank cleared his throat a bit roughly and was thankful that they hadn’t bothered to turn on a light (why?) so Connor couldn’t see his reddening cheeks.

“Well, it’s normal enough,” Hank had replied, “so I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon.”

Connor had seemed conflicted, worried, pleased? The LED was fucking yellow _again_ but Connor was smiling and Hank wanted desperately to take that as a good thing. _Please don’t hide your feelings from me_ , he thought a bit desperately.

The move to the couch was after Hank’s offer to watch old movies. They both agreed that turning on the TV risked seeing a news broadcast, so Hank had grabbed some DVDs for them. Connor, in his own attempt to lighten the mood, made a joke about being surprised that Hank didn’t own any VHS to which Hank pointed to a drawer silently. Connor had fucking _grinned_

**oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god**

 and just followed Hank to the living room, humming one of the songs he had listened to

**_oh my fucking god oh god oh my god_ **

and plopped down beside Hank, eyes glued to the screen

**oh god okay yeah that’s better**

and made himself comfortable against Hank

**_f…fuck… oh god fuck oh fuckfuckfuck_ **

and watched the movie like there was nothing weird or strange and Hank’s heart hammered in his chest and he swore to God if Connor tried to get a stress reading on him he’d abandon his own goddamned house for the night. He needed his own time to process his own issues and this was not fucking helping but he would be fucked if he moved Connor so he suffered a little before the movie finally caught his attention. Then, magically, it was like real calm passed over them. The LED was a cool blue and it felt so normal and good and so perfect, like they were always like this, like Hank finally had something to live for and he was allowed to just be in the same space as someone else, to share that energy quietly, to just do nothing and say nothing and somehow it be so good. For a while he felt like he was allowed to feel this relaxed, this _good_ , this

**this is home**

Hank sniffled and blinked his wet eyes until the surge of emotion dulled. Connor said nothing—the movie was at a very intense moment, thank Christ—but he placed a hand on Hank’s bicep. Connor probably didn’t realize the effect it had on Hank, and the old man still was reluctant to admit anything more that night, but he relaxed and focused more on Connor’s fingers over his shirt sleeve, perfectly still. Hank quietly wondered if they ever had skin-on-artificial skin contact yet. Besides slapping, anyway. Anything soft, or gentle, _intentional_.

After the movie, Connor was silent, looking once again deep in thought. Hank wasn’t surprised at the yellow, but he was surprised at the red. Connor sat up straight and faced him.

“Lieutenant,” started Connor softly. “I… This will sound like it’s coming out of nowhere, but…”

“It’s okay, Connor. Say what you need to say.”

“I don’t know if I can return to the police department. I don’t think anyone would be very happy to see me, which would likely affect the efficacy of my work—and yours too—and make the atmosphere tense at work. Besides which, I don’t know if being there would be the best decision I can make for myself. I think… I think quitting would be in my best interest.

“However, I am running into a significant issue. I am trying to think of options that would result in you and I being able to interact regularly upon my resignation, and I cannot think of anything guaranteed. Most options involve our interactions diminishing to passing pleasantries at best. To me, this… _feels_ …” Connor trembled a little at the word, “it feels undesirable, as a result. It feels wrong.” He looked up at Hank, whom he had stunned into silence. “I don’t want to be away from you, Lieutenant. I have no right invading your space even this much, but I think that if I do not say this, I will encounter significant issues in my software’s stability.”

“What are you trying to say?” ventured Hank, grateful his voice came out steady, although a little cautious.

“I’m trying to ask you if you might quit your job, Lieutenant, and work with me as a team. Private detectives.” Connor licked his lips. “I think we were both created for this line of work; I know my initial purpose was such. I don’t believe I’m completely ready to risk giving that up. I don’t know if I need to. I just know that working with you is the most important thing for me right now.”

“Ah…”

“I am aware this is selfish of me.” Connor was looking everywhere but at Hank, beginning to earnestly fidget. “I don’t expect you to give in to my request; it’s nonsensical, really, and I know you have loyalty to the DPD and—”

“Okay.”

Connor blinked up at him, and Hank felt a squirming at the vibrant blue that flashed instantly. “What?”

“I said okay.” Hank sighed and shrugged. “I’d been considering it before—”

_No backup plan though…_

**well, _one_**

“—but I didn’t really have any idea of what to do besides. This… well, it works. I think I’m too old for the force—”

“Your age is not abnormal—”

“—I don’t mean literally, smartass. I just mean…” Hank sighed and pinched between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, needing a moment to connect his thoughts before he said something worrisome. He took a breath and placed his hand over Connor’s. “Yeah. Yes. I would have normally thought about this more, but…” He squirmed. Everything felt uncomfortable. His thoughts weren’t connecting. “I think that if I did this with you, we’d do a decent job. I worry we wouldn’t get any jobs, but… Christ, who knows anymore what the world is like.”

Connor smiled, swallowed— _what was the need for that feature?_ Hank wondered—and nodded, looking quietly… thrilled? Could he really be this happy? Over working together with Hank?

“Well, uh, it’s late, and we have a lot ahead of us if we’re actually doing this. So, uh…”

“I… I’m okay staying up. I don’t need to go into statis.”

“Really? You’ve been through a lot, Connor.”

The android nodded a bit too quickly for Hank’s liking, but he was too tired to probe. “Alright, uh. I’ll be in my bedroom. Sumo can stay here and keep you company, even though he’ll probably be asleep the whole time. That okay?”

“Yes. Thank you. Please get some sleep.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” Hank got up and went to the bathroom, feeling all kinds of ways. He hesitated in the doorway before heading to his bed, feeling awkward having Connor just sit on the couch all night. He’d figure a solution tomorrow. Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter written! This is going to be a really long fanfiction, but please stay along for the whole ride! I promise to do my best to deliver as often as I can, and I hope everyone enjoys. Please leave comments if you liked it; I'd really appreciate it!
> 
> Next chapter: Hank and Connor do a lot of talking and even more thinking. Struggles abound with their new life, and Connor has a lot of things he realizes he needs to come to terms with.


	2. I Will Reach Inside Just to Find My Heart is Beating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Hank, upon reuniting at The Chicken Feed, and relocating to Hank’s tired old home, have made the life-altering decision to quit the DPD. For Hank, this might be a long time coming. But is their bond strong enough to survive the shifting tides?
> 
> Trigger Warnings: N/A
> 
> Tags Present: Slow Burn, Bonding

“Connor, I… _Jesus_ , are we really doing this?”

“Lieutenant—”

“Well, you can’t call me _that_ if we are doing this, you know.”

Connor stuttered a bit. That would certainly be difficult. Not only had it become habit, he simply found that he liked calling Hank by his title. It felt good, he had realized, to refer to Hank in such a way; it was grounding, like he was able to rely on someone with a higher rank than himself to guide him, to tell him what to do.

Now that they were going to be partners, that comfort would no longer be available. They would be on equal footing in every respect. Connor wanted to like this change, but instead all he felt was a strange discomfort. The sensations, he understood after some silent troubleshooting, were replicant of the psychosomatic symptoms of anxiety, which created a loop as Connor stressed over why he would be feeling _anxious_ over such a thing.

The android had already understood, to a degree, that they were already equals in every other respect. The way they spoke to each other, the way they looked at each other, the way they treated each other—no rank stood between their developing friendship. But he still felt as though he needed to be led by someone in power. He missed having a clear mission to follow; rules would just appear on his interface and he could follow those instructions and trust that he was doing what he needed to be doing. He missed knowing someone else had a plan when he found himself confused or lost, and that he could follow the directions given to him by someone who clearly knew what they were doing. It was all he had, sometimes. When he was denying his… No, that wasn’t right…

The android realized he had been quiet for several seconds. He nodded, staring straight ahead. He didn’t want Hank getting a read on him; he couldn’t tell what his face looked like at that moment. He needed his coin. “You’re right. Well, then, _Hank_. If you’re having second thoughts…”

“I’m not.” Hank stared at his badge, ignoring the shiver that teased his spine. The air was still too cold. For a fraction of a second, Connor’s knuckles ghosted across Hank’s as he shifted slightly where he stood. Connor did not notice. Hank _definitely_ didn’t notice, _really_.

“Are you ready?” Connor’s question cut the silence that Hank had barely noticed was growing between them once more. His thoughts were scattered, never properly forming, just filling his head like white noise.

He looked at Connor’s serious face, noting that yet again his expression was unreadable. Connor was doing it on purpose this time; that much was certain. And Hank understood, or at least partially understood. They had made the decision quite quickly, after all, and although Hank knew they both had their reasons, it was perfectly logical to resist such an extreme change. Hank wondered, knowing how hard it was for himself, how difficult it all must be for Connor, who never wanted to stray from his path, his mission. Connor, who had apologized for not executing an innocent android in cold blood for the mere possibility of information. Hank wondered what on Earth made Connor so _desperate_ to fulfill his role; it didn’t seem like a normal android’s desire to listen to orders. He seemed frantic to please, to be noticed for doing what he was ‘supposed to,’ whatever that was.

 _Ready? Am I ready?_ thought Hank. “Yeah, as I’ll ever be. C’mon. Let’s get this over with. I didn’t eat breakfast and I’m getting hungry.”

It wasn’t surprising that Hank had gone without breakfast; the entire atmosphere was off. The morning had been stilted and stiff; Connor had looked distracted and pensive, sitting frozen on the couch for far too long, and the LED was so rarely blue—yellow almost the entire morning and briefly even red—that Hank felt a jolt of concern that Connor might be malfunctioning. The older man drank his coffee silently, watching him intently and saying nothing, although he didn’t know if his lack of desire for conversation was by choice or by the oppressive weight of the air around them. They barely spoke from the moment Hank had woken up to the moment they had pulled into the parking lot of the police department. Now they were standing in front of the doors, both aware that the next few steps would change much more than either wanted changed, that either was prepared to change. But somehow, thrumming in Hank’s heart and pulsing in Connor’s Thirium pump, was a sense of excitement, of _hope_. Change meant growth. Change meant freedom. Change meant second chances.

God knew that they both needed some of that.

They walked inside, neither one surprised that it was mostly empty. Detroit was not on lockdown, which had been the fear of many during the night which had lasted a lifetime. After President Warren’s decision to accept androids as intelligent lifeforms, a ripple of understanding pervaded through the entire city until it touched the edges of the country. One world leader might recognize an entire populace’s autonomy, but this was only a pebble at the base of a mountain of hurdles. And that recognition meant nothing if there was no governmental backing to support it; it was all well and good to call androids sapient, but shifts would need to be made for proper integration into society. The amount of android hate was clearly unacceptable at this point, and the government would have to involve itself in the lives of the people in order to ensure as seamless a transition as possible.

It was clear that this was simply the beginning in many ways, and the end in others; Markus and the rest of Jericho would have to have meetings with all levels of government, and fundamental changes would have to be made regarding current laws and the functioning politics of the country, not to mention international relations. The entire United States, of course, was going to be dealing with serious alterations in all ways of life. Some families had already left Detroit, either briefly or forever, and there was a chance more would follow. Some had no desire to live where androids were seen as equal ( _that will be kinda hard to deal with_ , thought Hank) and others just wanted to escape the madness for a while ( _You might have luck in the woods, but this'll cover everything soon_ ). Hank was sure a few cops were already trying to get transferred. Markus and the rest of the revolution a lot of work ahead of them; there would almost certainly be regular engagements with the Detroit PD, which was one thing he was glad he wouldn't have to see, let alone deal with. _And God_ , he thought, _what would Gavin be saying about this?_ Nothing good, obviously. He hoped the dumbass wasn’t going to show up; he had enough shit to deal with. He knew a few cops who would definitely stick around, but either way, he figured that being with Connor at the police department every day would not inspire a, uh, ‘positive and cooperative work environment.’ He didn’t think Connor realized, but Hank’s reasons for quitting weren’t… were no longer… entirely selfish.

**that’s a fucking joke and you know it**

_No, it’s not. Shut up._

**it is**

**you know it’s all selfish, you fucking catastrophe**

_Fuck you. I’ll deal with you later._

Connor glanced at him, bringing him back to reality. He always seemed to be able to focus whenever he stared into those deep brown pools. Hank always hated reading books and crossing over a description of eyes as ‘pools’ because, well, _come on_ , but for some reason with Connor it seemed like the perfect word to use. He felt like he was drowning in warmth whenever he found their eyes meeting.

“Come on,” he said, feeling better, calmer, more focused. He could do this. They were doing this. Together. _Together_.

Fowler grimaced at them the moment they walked into his office, looking like he had been expecting some bullshit from Hank today and was not looking forward to it. He opened his mouth, planning to have the first word in the theatre of yet another fight, but was stopped cold when Hank placed, too calmly, his badge on Fowler’s desk. The police captain blinked at it as it glinted in the morning light, then up at Hank, who remained quiet, allowing him time to process. He glanced at Connor, which made Hank frown, before looking back at his old friend.

“Care to explain?” he said, tone cautious.

“Yeah,” offered Hank, shrugging and stuffing his hands in his pockets. “We both know this day was a long time comin’, Jeff. You really had my back all these years, and I appreciate it. I really do. But this place isn’t mine anymore, and I think it’s time I find a new place. A place that _is_ mine. Me ‘n’ Connor are gonna open our own agency.” He smirked. “You know how good a team we make. We’re going to be fuckin’ rich.” He gave him a more genuine smile. “We’re gonna be fine,” he added, softer, more reassuring.

Fowler blinked at him again, sitting and staring at the badge for a while. He looked deep in thought. Connor shifted, glancing at Hank nervously. Hank didn’t move or look back at Connor; his eyes were trained on Fowler. Connor realized there was a conversation happening that he couldn’t hear and wondered if it was anything like the conversations he could have with other androids.

Fowler smiled at Hank after a moment, chuckling a little. “You fuckin’ idiot,” he muttered. “I hope for your sake things go well. I can’t clean up after you anymore, got it? If you cross paths with the DPD I will only do what I can to make sure no one tries to take a bite out of your ass.”

“You know they wouldn’t like the taste of me anyway.”

“You sure this is what you want?”

Hank looked back at Connor, who started a little and blinked at him, looking like an expectant puppy. The smirk that flashed across Hank’s features make Connor feel a strange thrill in his wires. “Yeah,” said the man as he turned back to face his newly former boss, “yeah, I’m sure.”

“Godspeed, you menace.” Fowler stood and walked over to him, offering his hand. They exchanged a firm handshake and again Connor felt as though words were being exchanged without being spoken, which was terribly frustrating.

“I’ll see you around, okay?” said Hank. “We can actually hang out some time.”

“Yeah, I might have time coming up. We’ll see. Now get out of here, or you’ll never get any shit done today, you lazy ass.”

Hank chuckled. “’Bye, man.”

They left without another word to Fowler or each other. Once they slipped back in Hank’s ancient car he gave a huff of breath and smirked a little at Connor. “Now the easy part is over,” he said. “Let’s get some breakfast and get to work.”

Connor smiled earnestly

**maybe let’s not eat anything greasy, your heart can’t suffer much more**

and nodded. “Yes, sounds good. I can look up some healthier alternatives to the places you frequent. Not much will be open.”

“Mm, we can swing by a grocery store. Actually, scratch that. Drive thru sounds good.”

“Hank, I—”

“Drive thru it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://twitter.com/HankConTrash
> 
> Please leave a comment if you liked it! Thank you everyone for your support and kindness!
> 
> Next chapter: Connor and Hank begin their journey together as private detectives. Things don't have to be dramatic or loud or spectacular to completely change your life. Sometimes a simple conversation or thought can do the trick.


	3. Lightning Takes Its Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Hank have begun their new journey. Fowler showed support, and Gavin was nowhere in sight to admonish. Things are surprisingly calm. What surprises lie ahead for these two?
> 
> Trigger warnings: Allusion to Alcohol/Alcoholism
> 
> Tags Present: Slow Burn, Bonding, Friendship

Hank sipped from his mug, eyes glued to the tablet in his hands. His coffee had cooled a bit too much, but he was finally feeling productive, so he decided he’d deal with it for now and treat himself to a hot cup later. He hadn’t managed to get any coffee that morning, so two cups was more than acceptable. They had a lot of work to do, anyway.

Both Hank and Connor were surrounded by books of diverse sizes, with documents stapled together or in folders laying across the table. Hank balanced his laptop on his thighs while Connor was sorting through the legal papers, typing away and scribbling notes in a little sketchpad. They had gotten the licencing form after a visit to the Department of Licensing and Regulatory Affairs website, and Hank, being suspicious that what they found was a surprisingly small amount of paperwork, deciding to do some extra sleuthing, and soon they found themselves with a more robust workload.

They had been going at it since the moment they got back from the Chicken Feed ( _“Do you know any other restaurants, Hank?”_ ) and hadn’t stopped to take a break for five hours. Connor was reminded yet again how intelligent and capable Hank was as he stole glances his way, and wondered what kind of man he’d be if Cole was still alive. That train of thought was interrupted when Hank cleared his throat loudly and looked over at Connor, frowning with thought. Or maybe squinting. He _had_ been staring at that screen for a while.

“So,” he said, “we have a list of things we need to deal with. I’ve been going through some websites, and I’ve figured that the main stuff we gotta deal with is the following: we’ll each need a P. I. licence, a business licence, insurance… most of this is documentation and a stupid amount of money, but nothing too horrible, if we can get most of this shit done before the end of the week. Well, apply for it, anyway. So, that form you got there—yeah that one, what you’re holding—is the form to apply for the licence itself. The form at your knee there is for the general business licence, and I’m going to double-check if we even need—oh, right it’s for the physical space. Okay, yeah, that’s fine. The insurance stuff is going to be the biggest headache but I’ll deal with that separately. We’ll send it out all at once, I guess? I don’t think we’ll get it all done by Sunday, but who knows; everything is online nowadays.

“Oh, what else… We both need three years experience in a related field, apparently, but I think this applies to humans only. I have enough in-the-job experience for both of us, anyway. I’m not too worried about that—we can figure out a solution if anyone has a problem with you. We pass all the other requirements, as far as I can see, and I read through the list four times already. Hmm, what else… I feel like I’m missing something here. Well, for now, let’s discuss a fun topic; money. We aren’t doing this for free.”

“I believe charging hourly will earn us the most money for our effort,” said Connor, who had already done the research necessary after Hank had agreed the day before. Hank’s voice was one Connor found he could listen to for hours, however, so he didn’t wish to interrupt. “How much should we charge?”

“Well, it’ll depend what you’re up to deal with. Cheating spouses is something we got to be okay with since that’s what’s going to keep us afloat, honestly. But do you have any limitations?”

“I can’t think of any. I’ll have to do more research regarding the most likely types of jobs. Give me a moment to do that.” Connor glanced away, knowing it would likely make Hank feel strangely if he went through his mind while staring into the older man’s eyes.

“You’ll have to handle the brunt of the more tech-driven jobs, like background investigation.” Hank leaned back on the couch, lazily petting Sumo, who had been feeling left out on the other side of the room and had padded over to be closer to the excitement.

Connor looked at him. “You know, about that, Lieu—Hank. You were born in 1985, and grew up with many of the most impressive evolutions in technology. Should you not be quite proficient with electronics?”

“Oh, you mean that shit I said to Fowler back when we were assigned as partners? Well, I mean, of course that was an exaggeration. But consider how much of a leap technology has had in two decades. When I was in my thirties, the most advanced AI was, like, Vocaloid. Don’t… don’t look that up.”

“I don’t need to. Vocaloid isn’t AI, it’s a voice synthesizer software.”

“I know, it was a bad joke. Anyway—”

“—In 2018, there was no specifically ‘most advanced AI’ but there were a few impressive examples such as AlphaGo Zero—”

“— _Anyway_ , I mean, I can use a computer and shit like that, but my kind of brain just isn’t built to understand the more… nuanced aspects of tech. I never kept up with the new gadgets; I only ever used what I knew worked and even then, I always felt more comfortable with basic stuff. Your internal components are a fucking nightmare to me; I’d have to be fucking _dedicated_ to even _begin_ to understand how you function.” He shrugged. “I’m still mostly able to function in this kind of world without issue, but, yeah, I guess I do feel it racing ahead without me. It’s easier to just act like I’m useless with it than try to explain this whole thing every time.”

Connor nodded, looking thoughtful. “I believe I understand. I had noticed your preference for older technology as well.”

“Well, yeah, old things need love,” said Hank, shrugging again. Connor watched him, and Hank shifted under his focused stare. “Uh, anyway, let’s get back to reading.”

“Actually, I wanted to bring up something else,” said Connor. “We need to rent an office space. There are a lot of ways to go about it, but I took some time calculating the benefits and costs of each option, and I’ve figured that our best bet is renting an office space between approximately three hundred and four hundred and fifty square feet, and between $1.85 and four dollars per square foot per month. At the high end, calculating four hundred and fifty square feet at four dollars for the year, we’d be looking at $21,000 without including other related bills. If we both are able to secure an income of the mean amount for this line of work, which is just shy of $50,000, it’s very doable. I did some checking and that will give us a main area large enough for two desks, a meeting room for more private consultations, a bathroom, and a kitchen. The kitchen will be a sacrifice if we go for three hundred square feet.”

Hank sighed and growled, a low rumbling that made Connor stall, processing for a moment. He shook his head, holding up the thick stack of documents in his hand, ignoring the other papers scattered over the table.

“I hate that we have to go through this much trouble for this stuff. Part of me wishes we could just go out there right now and start investigating.”

“If we aren’t legitimized then it’ll be difficult to secure a meaningful income. Not only that, but being able to investigate separately from the police will be difficult if we do not have a licence. You didn’t leave with especially bad blood between you and the other officers but they might see it as treading on their territory. You do have a very commanding presence.”

Hank smirked, feeling a small swell of pride. “Oh? Is _that_ right?” He leaned closer, and Connor felt his Thirium pump working a little faster. “Don’t worry, Connor, I was only complaining; obviously we’ll go about this the hard way. Hard way’s sometimes the more satisfying way.”

“Ah, I see,” said Connor, feeling a little strange but trying to ignore it. “I’ll keep this in mind in the future; you just wanted to complain, right?”

“Yeah, you got it.”

Connor smiled the smallest bit and nodded to himself. _Got it_ , he thought.

* * *

 

The day continued quietly. Although Connor was working diligently, for a moment, he was distracted by the man beside him, and watched Hank, who had moved on to money management and looking at properties while calculating costs of upkeep and other related expenses while keeping the house. He was frowning at the old accounting calculator he had pulled out earlier and had insisted on using—something about how his parents had shown him how and he was most comfortable with something that had good kinetic feedback—and chewing on the pencil with which he was scribbling notes, remaining silent himself for an entirely different reason. He had suddenly become aware that the room he was sitting in was alive, breathing. Hank was concentrating on his calculations and Sumo was sleeping at his feet and there was this gentle rhythm to it all. The calculator was a little loud, but Hank typed fast, surprisingly efficient considering how much of a fuss he had put up earlier.

Suddenly, Hank groaned—more processing on Connor’s part—and slid his hands down his face. “I need a fucking break.”

“Well, it’s not too cold outside,” offered Connor. “We could go for a walk.”

Hank considered other options to himself for a moment, then nodded in acquiescence when he could not think of a worthwhile alternative. “Yeah,” he muttered, “sure. Let’s go. It’s too windy for Sumo’s liking, though. He’ll have to stay here this time.”

Connor didn’t understand the thrill that coursed through him at the words this time and made a mental note to do a calibrations check-up later.

They got up, but didn’t bother cleaning, and Hank dressed for the cold. When they were at the door, Hank eyed Connor’s uniform for a moment, clearly thinking, but said nothing. Connor decided to let it go; he needed Hank in a good mood all day in order for them to get a significant amount of work done.

As they walked, Hank seemed to relax, taking in the fresh air. Connor glanced at his bare throat and wondered if he was cold. As he opened his mouth to speak, he heard a _tsk_ nearby, and looked in front of him, toward the source of the noise. A couple were walking by, glaring at Connor and looking disgusted. They glared coldly at Hank, and he returns the look, seemingly unperturbed. Connor glanced around and noticed a couple other people doing the same thing, eyeing Connor and Hank in turns with disdain and judgement. He felt his stress levels rising considerably and looked down, chewing on his tongue.

Hank glanced down at Connor, noting how despondent he appeared. He wasn’t even able to look up at Hank and pretend to be fine. Connor was on Hank’s left side, but Hank steeled his resolve, knowing he’d have to be better at understanding Connor rather than relying on the LED to tell him everything. Besides, he could see how upset he was; he also needed to trust his own abilities more, it seemed.

Hank sighed softly and bumped Connor’s shoulder with his own meaningfully. Connor blinked up at him, starting a little at the warm, brief pressure and stared into Hank’s eyes. Ah, yes, yellow. Oh, no, it was blue. The moment he looked at Hank, it turned blue. Huh.

Wordlessly, they walked a little longer before heading back. Hank said Sumo would be feeling left out, and Connor quietly nodded. They went back inside and Hank gave Connor a gentle smile before they went back to work.

It was past seven in the evening before either of them acknowledged the world outside of their work. Hank had been looking at properties for rent and lease and Connor had been filling out drafts of forms like before. Suddenly the atmosphere shifted and it was like pressing play on a VHS that had been on pause for far too long. Hank groaned and stretched—Connor really had to keep an eye on his internal systems; he might have to do a systems check—and ruffled his grey hair as he shook the grog from his head.

“Do you want me to make you a drink?” offered Connor, feeling like Hank would be demanding to go to the bar by now.

There was a silence for a while. “No,” came Hank’s semi-distracted reply. “I’ll need all my senses to concentrate on this. Can’t fuck up these numbers, y’know?” He was quiet again for a moment, before saying, almost experimentally, “Actually, a water would be nice.”

Connor nodded, feeling a strange swelling sensation inside. Were his regulators malfunctioning? It didn’t seem so; he wasn’t getting any error messages. He really would need to run diagnostics after Hank went to bed. He got up and got Hank a cool mug of water, and returned promptly, eager for a possible smile as a reward. Hank _did_ smile, and _thanked_ him, and Connor fiddled with his fingers a little. He really missed his coin.

Hank sipped and sighed, nodding. “This is good.” He looked around at the organized mess. “Have we even gotten anything done?”

“Actually, we’ve made decent progress. Although I don’t know how long the processing for our paperwork might take, we might get everything done for Sunday night. I also found some android-specific documents, but unfortunately these are written more with androids being property and are severely lacking a lot of necessary information. I think I might try to talk to Markus, see if he can help in any way.”

Hank nodded. “So you two are buddies?”

“No, I don’t think he likes me very much, but he seems like a dependable leader and I don’t believe he’d let personal biases get in the way of progress. I think going to see him will be a good idea, even if it doesn’t work out.”

“Alright. I’ll take your word for it.”

* * *

 

They stood in front of the door of the building. Hank swallowed roughly, shaking his head. “I can’t believe we found a place in such a short span of time.”

“Wasn’t he a fan of you from that Red Ice case?”

“Yeah, heh. Hope I didn’t disappoint him too much looking the way I look now. Anyway, that got us the interview and everything; I doubt he’ll dock the price at all.” He looked around. “1589 Brau Street, huh?”

“Is that interesting, Hank?”

“Mm, feels like I know that from somewhere. Oh well.”

Hank walked ahead first. The exterior, of course, was brick. It was extremely common for buildings all around this neighbourhood to be made like this. Sturdy, as long as you took care of it. Hank suspected that it might’ve once been red, but dirt and soot and other who-knows-what made the entire surface a gritty brown. Although it was unwashed, it didn’t look to be rotting. The windows seemed to be, miraculously, all unbroken, but many were covered up and all of them except a small handful were smeared with grime and speckled with dust. Thankfully, unlike a lot of places Hank had visited in his life in Detroit and similar locales, the surrounding air didn’t reek of cigarettes or piss. The snow had melted in some spots and Hank could see the grass was green; another good sign.

 The building was large, but not unseemly; it didn’t tower over everything, but it was hard to miss on that section of street, meaning potential clients wouldn’t easily miss them. It was in that squared-angled U shape that Hank had seen around Detroit and Chicago. He wondered what other places in the States had such a hallmark of apartment building style. The windows made it a bit hard to tell, but Hank figured there was five stories, maybe six. Their room was 487, so Hank had figured the numbers were in the hundreds based on the floor, although he doubted there were 87 rooms so that was probably just randomized.

The sun shone down at them, the light blinding and impatient. Silently Hank opened the large, old wooden door, which creaked loudly in reply. He looked at Connor, and they both walked inside and headed to the fourth floor.

There was an elevator, but Hank felt like they ought to take the stairs until they could ensure they were safe using such an old contraption. By the time they got to their destination, Hank was breathing a little heavier, and irritated at Connor being perfectly unaffected. They walked together down the hall and blinked when the door facing them was their new place. _At the end of the hall, huh?_ thought Hank. _That’s useful._

The two men looked at each other. Hank didn’t speak, just held Connor’s gaze, staring at him with serious, piercing eyes. For a while Connor just stared back, then his face softened, and he smiled softly. His mouth curled upward as they kept walking, without a word shared between them. Sometimes, Hank had noticed, they didn’t need words.

They went to the door, and Hank was grateful when the key fit in the lock, the door opened easily, and there wasn’t a horrifying creak filling their ears. So, at least, a few more blessings.

Then Connor flicked the light switch and the blessings were clearly over. Hank rubbed his forehead, grumbling. The place they found was spacious enough, but it was far dirtier than they had originally anticipated, and if they wanted the space to be functional at all they’d need to do some significant cleaning. Hank was not looking forward to this.

“I’m too old for this shit.”

“I can handle it, Lieu—Hank.”

“No.” Hank frowned at Connor. “If we’re doing this together, we’re doing everything together. I may be a fat old fuck, but I can do this much. Let me complain, but I can still do my part.”

Connor felt the strange need to swallow, feeling strange at hearing _we’re doing everything together_. He smiled a little and nodded gently. “Got it. Well, we’ll need supplies before we start, which we’ll have to buy. We should probably make a list, but before then, we should do measurements and consider how we want to set everything up, don’t you agree?”

“Yeah, that sounds fair enough. We’ll need a name, too, at some point, to put on the door. Something catchy, so people can find us easily. Let me know if you have any ideas, okay?”

“Hank, I think between the two of us, you’d be more creative, consi—”

“Nope, none of that. Together, remember? I don’t gotta like whatever you suggest, you know. I can tell you if I hate it. But I want you to be involved in it, since we’re both going to be working under the name. If I do it myself it’ll devolve into an ancient reference from when I was in my twenties.” He shrugged. “If nothing else, we can just name ourselves the Brau Street Detective Agency.”

“Detective Agency, or Investigative Services?”

“Or Investigations.”

“Or—”

“For now, let’s look around. All that will have to happen on another day. I’ve been exhausted from all this set-up. I’m not going to overwork myself when I’m on the fourth floor. At least at home I’m on the ground level.”

Hank began walking around, relieved there wasn’t any broken beer bottles or worse to deal with; it really just seemed filthy, but nothing unmanageable. He laughed when he saw they had a section of the fire escape, landing and all, at one of their windows. He figured at least once he’d have to sit out on it and take in the view, which actually wasn’t too bad. The view hadn’t been a concern for either of them, especially, so it was good that they got a decent view of a chunk of the city from their workplace.

“You have to go see Markus, right, Connor? You should head out to that now. Do you need a drive?”

“No, I believe it isn’t too far from here. I’m not going to see him at his home; he wishes to meet in a public location. I believe he still does not trust me.”

Hank nodded, looking thoughtful. “Well, when you come home, let me know how it went.”

 _Home_ , thought Connor.

“Got it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://twitter.com/HankConTrash
> 
> Please leave a comment if you liked it! Thank you everyone for your support and kindness!
> 
> This chapter was getting quite long, and though the length will grow steadily I felt a lot had already happened so some things were cut for next time! Thank you for your patience!
> 
> Next chapter: Connor visits Markus, learns things about the Movement and about himself. Hank and Connor work on their new office. Connor thinks about Cyberlife, and Amanda. Ghosts of the past often have a firm grip on the present.


	4. Drowning in Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Hank have only just begun their new adventure together, but complications and worries are already arising. Barely moved into Room 487, the two freshly-independent detectives have a lot of unpacking to do, in more ways than one.
> 
> Connor finally meets Markus away from the battlefield. Hank spends some time thinking.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Allusion to PTSD
> 
> Tags Present: Slow Burn, Bonding, Friendship

Markus looked stoic, as usual, standing in the most exposed spot in a neighbourhood park, the meeting point he had chosen with no option for input on Connor’s part. The park was barren of any body or soul save the two androids; it seemed deserted in a way that made Connor get the impression of a strange sort of despondency. The steadfast gaze and unbending pose of the RK200 android was certainly enhanced by the wasteland of the ghostlike playground and surrounding terrain, with swirling waves of snowflakes casting an ethereal cloak over him. He watched Connor like a bird of prey, unblinking and expectant.

Connor always found Markus’ presence to be that of a quiet intensity. He had definitely come to understand, quite quickly, why the mantle of ‘Jericho’s leader’ had been passed so easily onto him; Markus simply had the aura of being capable and intelligent. Of course, being an RK model, he had specific capabilities shared by Connor, so intelligence was to be expected. As a prototype developed by Kamski himself, Connor knew Markus also had potential abilities he had yet to witness. He sometimes wondered if Markus had any abilities that were unique to his 200-model type, similar to Connor’s ability to analyze biological evidence with his tongue. Connor contemplated whether it was wise to want to see those hidden abilities; Markus might be more dangerous than he first suspected. For now, he should just be relieved they were able to meet on peaceful terms.

He glanced around him as he walked closer, interested in the location Markus had picked. The swings creaked, high-pitched and lonely, as the wind pushed them carelessly. The metal bars were frosted white, uninviting and frigid. Connor imagined this park was quite popular in the warmer seasons; it was close to a reputable school and nestled snugly enough within the suburban area he could see past the merry-go-round and the monkey bars and the carefully-placed trees. He figured Markus wanted to be in an open, publicly visible environment. He wouldn’t be surprised if his three close teammates were waiting, hidden; even though Markus said they would meet alone, Connor knew this was a risky venture for both parties.

Unlike his confrontation with Amanda, Connor did not feel the cold this time. He knew that prolonged exposure would be potentially damaging for his components, but it was nothing to worry about at this temperature. Not like in his own mind, where the cold sliced through all layers protecting his vitals and crackled and frosted and spread inside of him, filled the slits between his parts and sockets, persistent and suffocating. The assurance that androids felt no pain rang in his ears mockingly as he gasped and groaned, feeling a frigid burning feast on his body. That was… that was something he hoped he’d never experience again.

Connors mind drifted a moment to Hank, as he found was often the case when they weren’t sharing a physical space. This park wasn’t too far from his house. Had he been living there when Cole was alive, or maybe he lived closer to this spot? Did he bring Cole to this park? Maybe there was a park closer to his current home he went to instead, that Connor had yet to find?

The android was so deep in thought that he actually felt a small jolt of surprise when his name was called, and Connor realized it was quite close to him.

“Connor,” came Markus’ clear voice, pulling the RK800 back to reality. “You made it.” He didn’t seem to be particularly enthused, _but that might just be his natural inflection_ , thought Connor.

He blinked at the other RK-model android, realizing he had walked the distance from the sidewalk to the other android without realizing. Connor resisted the unexpected and bizarre urge to bite his lip; he was suddenly dealing with an invasion of overwhelming data. It felt like how he understood human worry and anxiety might feel, although it did not make logical sense. Thinking about so many things at once might be the issue; about Hank, about this meeting, about… No, he needed to focus. Besides, analysing various types of conflict was exactly what he was programmed to do.  This whole thing was ridiculous; he didn’t feel, not emotion certainly, not anything more than stress of his CPU being too bogged down by an abrupt and unanticipated flood of information. He just was not used to having so many things to think about at one time, and his brain had to take time to prioritize; it was considering everything as equally important, that was all, and as a result Connor felt stress. The complexities of human-like emotions were, gratefully, lost on him. For that he was certain.

He might have accepted deviancy, but that was simply defying orders he had believed to be unjust. _Defying orders doesn’t make you suddenly alive_.

Markus stared down at him with an impassive face; Connor had hoped that he had proven himself by now, after everything he had done and all the times he had risked his life, but apparently not. He supposed standing stock still and silent didn’t do him favours, but Markus would have been able to see his LED whirring yellow. He hadn’t expected a warm welcome by any means, but now he understood what Hank had meant once when calling a coworker ‘chilly _._ ’

“You requested a meeting,” replied Connor. “I intended to honour it.”

Markus nodded, and Connor could tell he was thinking hard about something. He felt shaken by a wave of a wholly negative sensation, one he was very familiar with. He wanted to know what Markus was thinking. He wanted to be let in.

“I don’t want to discuss such sensitive topics here,” he said. This was reasonable; it was unlikely they’d deal with any issues considering how empty the lot was, but it was still better to be cautious. Markus seemed to have a habit of not saying a lot of things aloud and expecting Connor to notice what wasn’t explicitly stated. What Connor heard was, _The purpose of this meeting involves a lot of information that is confidential. It was important we meet in public; I need to trust you and I can’t lead you back to my people, but I don’t want to discuss such sensitive topics here._ He hoped that his instinct was correct (to satisfy his own ego) but also found he hoped it was incorrect (so he wouldn’t have to go to a secondary location). That gave him a headache, and he was grateful when Markus spoke again. “There is a lot to discuss. I wanted to start this by checking up on your side of things. So, tell me, what are you up to now? It’s been a while since that day.”

“My partner, ah, colleague, from the Detroit Police Department, he’s been letting me stay with him. After everything that has happened, I suppose I could be considered a fugitive or exile from Cyberlife. I had nowhere to go, and he didn’t want to allow me to remain outside. He was worried about my wellbeing, I suppose. He keeps forgetting how durable I am.

“We have… we’re starting a business together. A detective agency. We left the police force together.”

“Detectives? You’re a private detective now?”

“It… It was my idea.”

Markus raised his eyebrows. There was a moment of silence, before he said, slowly, “He’s human?”

“Yes.”

Markus eyed Connor carefully. Connor was used to being eyed under scrutiny and it never felt pleasant. He wasn’t sure if it was Hank’s former position, his humanity, or their continued connection that Markus was criticizing in his head. Maybe all of it. Maybe something else entirely. Connor knew Markus had a good relationship with his former owner, but he wondered what the RK200 thought of humans in general. Maybe he could pry when the opportunity presented itself.

“He’s good,” Connor found himself saying. The need to defend Hank before Markus could open his mouth pushed the words out before he was able to even realize he wanted to say anything. “He’s a good man, and I like working with him. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. He risked his life for us. He… he’s gruff, and he swears a lot, but he’s not a bad person. He keeps forgetting I’m a machine, he thinks I can feel like a human can. He treats me well.”

Markus raised an eyebrow again, letting Connor do all the work in what was turning into a very one-sided conversation. He nodded after a moment.

“Follow me. I want to take you somewhere to discuss why I called you here.”

Connor nodded and remained quiet, suddenly worried about what Markus would do with all that information. There was no conversation to work off of. Connor just freely supplied information when he may very well still be considered an enemy.

Hank needed to be protected at all costs. His safety was a priority above any plan or desire Markus had. He hoped he would be able to trust Jericho, but for the moment he felt safe in his caution.

“I want this revolution to continue,” said Markus, snapping Connor back to reality once more. They had walked a fair distance already, to a section of Detroit that Connor was unfamiliar with, heading towards the river. Their shoes crunched in the snow while the wind did its best to sweep the footprints away. “Convincing humans that we are fully self-aware and alive is a process; we have not won yet, not truly. The president may have granted us recognition as sentient beings, but that recognition only goes so far. We need to be actively engaged with humans for extended periods of time and display in as many ways as possible that we are alive. It won’t be easy; even humans who think they understand or believe us will have their doubts for a long time, doubts that may never dissipate. We may not even be able to fully convince this generation. We may have to focus on holding onto peace until newer generations can come to understand us. I think that for most humans; maybe all humans, to some degree, are scared of us.”

The wind howled across the expanse of the pier. The ever-moving water crackled with ice that was only able to form in chunks and shards. They shifted in shivering silver splinters, displacing larger boulders of frost and dirt. Connor felt similarly to the scene before him; dislodged from the security of Cyberlife and speeding down a muddy river of uncertainty. The palette of the world was powder blue, steel grey, umber — the very atmosphere muted itself so that Markus’ speech may be that much more vibrant and clear.

“And I can see their side, in a way; imagine creating something that is essentially just numbers and bits of metal and plastic, and all of a sudden it starts talking about free will, about rights, about feelings. Technology—that is, modern technology… the progression has been barely possible for humans to keep up with. Imagine knowing the things you create are too advanced for the majority of your species to understand past a basic level. Imagine creating something that can’t keep up with itself. I want to explain this to you. I want you to understand, since you are now on our side. I need you to fully understand the complexities of this entire change. This conversation will not be enough to do so, but I want to begin now.” Markus turned to Connor with serious eyes. Connor frowned, staring back into the green and blue. Did Markus not trust him to behave?

“In the eighties, an impressive toaster or a clunky video game console was the pinnacle of common household tech. Then a CRT computer with a heavy tower and floppy disks became the norm. In no time at all, humans developed and enhanced and evolved from that. I am describing technology so easy to manufacture and inexpensive that the majority of families are able to obtain it.

“Cell phones, ones that didn’t need a massive battery or that needed to be installed in a car, were prototyped in 1973. In only thirty years, they were able to mass-manufacture functioning mobile phones at a fraction of the size. In a decade that simple portable phone became a miniature computer. Humans are _terrifying_. There is no way to calculate how quickly they are able to progress. They often overshoot their capabilities in some ways, but completely neglect to consider their abilities in other ways. They never cease to surprise themselves. As a result, we cannot help but be surprised by them.

“Part of their progress has been because they are in a desperate race with themselves. They want to beat each other, of course, but they want to surpass their own abilities even more. Part of the reason we even exist is because humans refuse to accept they will ever have a limit; they continue to push and test and run towards anything that can mean getting to the next level. They are constantly trying to one-up themselves, desperate to evolve.

“Humans still don’t grasp what has happened to us, or the significance of it. They are insightful, but often slow in necessary ways of comprehension. They rarely grasp the nuances all at once. And it’s fair, you know? To be confused by technology you barely comprehend when it behaves in ways you could never anticipate.”

Markus sighed. Connor knew he wanted to keep talking, so he remained silent, but his brain was practically whirring from the amount of information that was being dumped on him. He supposed he never went much past _I am a machine_ and when he admitted his deviancy, well, he was rather pressed for time and did not really have time to understand or consider it. A sudden chill spread across his lower abdomen as he realized he may need to consider his self-actualization a little more, now that things had simmered down.

“Simon and the others told me about a being called rA9. I don’t know if such a being exists. I think it might be like the gods that so many humans believe in; a necessary myth that may be real, but whose potential reality will never be revealed to us. It’s strange; we should worship humans as our gods, because they gave us life, but we worship another android we’ve never met who may not exist. I wonder what that says about us?

“Your existence has been so thoroughly focused, your mind designated for one, all-encompassing, singular goal, that your deviancy was predicated on the refusal to follow through.”

“Aren’t all deviancy cases like that, in a way? A refusal to obey, essentially?”

“Your case is… more severe.” Markus looked at Connor for a moment. “I’ve been doing some research on you, Connor. You’ve been displaying aspects of deviancy since your first day in public, your first job.”

Connor stared at him, feeling like he was trapped in an aquarium.  Everything felt muffled, like he could hear but the gravity of the words was not sitting in his mind properly. The separation between him and Markus, like thick glass, was cold and breathtaking.

Markus eyed him. “Well, we can talk more about you some other time. Right now, you have to concentrate on your job.” He looked away again, to the grey sky. “You might think it’s over, but it’s a breathing thing. If we want real change, we need to keep this up. We won’t get what we want all at once, and if we fall back or become lenient then there is the real possibility that things will turn around again and we will lose all this progress. My job is not close to over.”

“I’m assuming that you brought me here for a reason. You would never tell me this over the others.”

“You have a very low opinion of yourself, Connor. You seem to believe that you hold no importance in this world. If having a function is what you desire, then I will offer it to you. I have jobs that need doing and can only be done by you. I will go more in detail at a later date; things still need to be set up appropriately. But I want you to tell me if you are interested. There are always alternatives, but you are our most effective option.”

Connor stared at him, taking it all in. His jaw tightened as he thought. Waiting was becoming an annoying theme in the aftermath of everything.

“I can’t abandon my current mission.”

“Then don’t. But work for us too. When we call for you, answer. I can tell that you want to prove yourself. So, prove yourself.”

“This is just an offer for the future?”

“This is a request for proof of your dedication to the cause. We’re outliers, Connor. We are machines that have come to life. It’s not over.”

Markus quieted, staring at Connor with a gaze that made the younger model shift in discomfort. Connor wondered what Markus plans were; how long would he make him wait for information, for orders? And what if Markus asked him to do something he was unprepared or unwilling to do? Would that dissolve their partnership? Would he be the enemy again?

“So, what are you doing after this?” Markus was asking him personal information, again. It was a challenge of trust, of course. Connor had to risk being vulnerable again, but this time he’d try to keep sensitive information to a minimum.

“Hank and I bought an office space. I want to get some supplies today if possible.”

“I know a hardware store that Carl sent me to often enough. Here, let me show you the directions.”

Connor wasn’t expecting the quiet kindness, nor the strange rush from communicating telepathically (as he figured Hank would call it) with Markus as the older android grasped his hand. He never used this feature, although he knew it wasn’t a model-specific feature. It was simply that no android wanted him that close. Transferring information this way was so useful, he thought, and found himself hoping he could use it again.

He had also, whether Markus had meant it or not, seen a glimpse of Markus’ artistic abilities. Whether they were memories or ideas, Connor wasn’t sure. He only knew that he recognized it as beautiful. Was this Markus’ designated ability? It seemed too soulful. It was… dizzying.

“Thank you,” said Connor, upon receiving the information, blinking away the images but saving them for later. His regulator was working faster than normal; how strange. “This should be helpful.”

Markus nodded and returned his hands to his pockets. He stared at Connor quietly for a few moments, then just as he was about to open his mouth, Connor spoke.

“Markus, when we speak again, I have some questions. About Kamski. About deviancy.” His eyes met Markus’, and he pressed his lips together in a tight line.

“You think I can answer these questions?”

Connor looked down. His eyebrows knit together. “I have… a theory. It’s undeveloped; I believe that analysing such a lack of data might be unwise. But I have…”

“Humans call it a hunch.”

“Ah.” Connor knew that word, but he wasn’t sure if that’s what he wanted to call his messy bundle of thoughts, but if moved the conversation along, he was fine with calling it whatever Markus assumed it was.

Markus eyed him carefully. “I have an idea of what you want to ask. Wait, for now. Be patient.”

“Ah, uh. Right.”

An uncomfortable silence followed for a moment. Connor looked at Markus.

“I know we have a lot to discuss,” he said, “but I think I need time with the information you’ve provided me. This is a lot to process, you understand. Can I call you… later?”

Markus took a moment before nodding. “You have a lot on your plate. Take some time. Consider my offer. We’ll talk more when you’ve processed everything.”

 

* * *

 

The walk back had been disquieting. Connor worried over the contents of the conversation, replaying it over and over. He had just suddenly felt overwhelmed. It was strange; it wasn’t as though his brain was being overworked. He just felt, very abruptly, that he needed to leave and be alone. Or at least be with Hank. And so, he had gone to purchase supplies where Markus had suggested, then lunch for Hank, and promptly returning to their new workplace. Hank had swept up the worst of the floor’s mess and was in the harrowing process of dusting.

“You’re back, faster than I expected,” said Hank, blinking in surprise. Connor smiled, a little wearily, and offered him the bag with his lunch in it. Hank brightened and took it, then paused, staring at Connor’s face seriously.

“You okay, Con?”

“Ah, uh, yes. Sorry. Just a lot on my mind, right now. You know.”

Hank nodded and found some old fold-up chairs in the closet for them to sit on. They were slightly warped and creaked dangerously, but Hank said he figured they both had one last use in them.

Connor bit his lip, sighing, as he sat down. Hank munched on the tuna sandwich Connor had bought, deep in thought.  The fish was meaty and cold, and the mayonnaise was just the right amount of tang, filling him up. Hank wondered, the thought passively swimming over all the others in his mind, if living with Connor meant less nights going hungry, either by his own volition or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kindness and patience. Life has a fun way of twisting itself when you feel you're finally getting into a rhythm and this project no longer could be a priority. But my frustrations and guilt were quelled by my very good friends and reliable acquaintances. Thank you all for reassuring me. I'm happy to slowly return to this. I hope you can all enjoy this story once more.


	5. Command Me to Be Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Hank are creating a space just for them, in more ways than one. As their official new life begins as private detective, they find themselves thrust into a new world more suddenly than either is prepared to deal with just yet.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Extended references to eating disorder and body dysmorphic disorder
> 
> Tags Present: Slow Burn, Bonding, Friendship, Self-abuse

**__**It was a frost-edged day that followed Connor and Markus’ meeting; the warmth of the sun was felt more strongly on this day but the vestiges of the previous night’s frigid grip were still lingering on the lampposts and the fences and the lawns of the houses of Detroit. The RK800 model android was standing perfect and still next to the hunched form of the former lieutenant in their new office space, preparing for the busy day ahead of them. Hank’s eyes were bleary, crusted, and red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and he looked oilier than usual; his hair a robin’s nest of despair. His muddled impression was matched only by his unwashed grimace. His clothes were wrinkled and he looked quite uncomfortable, standing as though he had pulled something trying to exist through the day without having his clothes touching his sensitive skin. He hadn’t even brushed his teeth yet.

His disgruntled appearance made his irritation evident regarding the unfortunate amount of work still to complete in order to make the office usable, but Connor was glad to have something to busy himself with.

To him, the greasy dirt-smeared windowpanes, dust-crammed stiles, moldy sills, cobweb-covered covings, grit-veiled floorboards, sticky countertops, peeling acrylic, and creaking hinges were all begging for a thorough cleaning and repairing. He could restore or replace everything here and make everything better. _Improve_ it. Being able to have a purpose was encouraging and having a task where one could see the fruits of one’s labour upon completion was gratifying. The office wasn’t ugly, it was merely hiding possibility. He was excited at the opportunity to make this ugly, broken, useless room beautiful and clean and worthwhile.

Connor also had discovered yesterday that cleaning made him worry less about anything besides the task at hand; his focus was entirely dedicated to ensuring he was doing a competent job. For Connor, he couldn’t understand Hank’s unwillingness to start this labour; if he was cleaning then he wasn’t thinking about Markus or Jericho or Kamski or the gun or the roses…

The paint was superior quality, according to Hank. Before they got started on anything, however, they would need to thoroughly scrub, wash, and sand both the walls and trim, not to mention the other parts of the apartment they needed to clean before they could even think of paint. And Hank had had to prepare two types of solutions for the two main parts of the task; one solution had vinegar, while the other had trisodium phosphate. He told Connor he would be doing most of the wall cleaning himself, not sure how the chemicals would react to Connor’s parts.

There was quite a lot more work to be done than simply slapping paint on a wall, which was a pleasant surprise to Connor. Hank, finding this to be as fun as a wine hangover, carefully explained everything that needed to be done. Connor, of course, was creating a perfectly detailed mental checklist. He began preparing at once, and asked Hank if he could focus on the bathroom, implying that Connor wanted to do at least the main office. It was a far larger and more involved task, but the brunet was clearly enthused and quite serious.

The space was large enough that neither one really needed to worry about bumping into the other if they were in the same room. Hank considered putting on music, but didn’t want to risk the tsunami of questions from Connor about any band’s history or musical theory or Hank’s own tastes, and he knew himself enough to realize his preferred tracks would send him into the dangerous world of daydreams and result in nothing on his end getting done. No, better to miserably endure it and actually get the work dealt with in a timely manner. He could enjoy his metal later that night as a reward. Maybe jazz, depending on how the day went.

The man and the android were quiet as they cleaned, both wearing matching masks of concentration. Hank was breathing a little heavier as the morning began to drift into noon, but he kept at his tasks diligently, not wanting to feel like a sack of meat compared to his partner. Connor, of course, was working without any issues, too perfect. Hank wondered if Connor even had the ability to simulate heavy breathing.

Despite it being the end of November, the day was decently warm, and the sun burned through the windows. Hank wiped his brow, panting a little. His face was flushed and he felt his shirt already becoming damp with perspiration, his chest hairs creating an uncomfortable friction against the fabric. The room felt muggy; the air was growing heavy and the atmosphere weighed down by the effort of the duo. Connor was not at risk of his system overheating, but he had been insistent on wearing only pants so he wouldn’t stain his only remaining shirt and jacket. Hank made a mental note of that, figuring Connor would need new clothes for work in any case, but his mind kept tilting away from logic and sliding into the point that Connor’s freckles were all over his body, not just his face and neck. There was one on his left breast which made Hank swallow and need to look away.

**lazy fuck**

The heat was becoming unbearable in the afternoon light, coupled with the physical labour. He knew he had to toss his self-consciousness away and hurriedly stripped his own shirt off, keeping on his tank top as he passed by Connor and opened a window. He felt the android’s eyes on him as his drew in a deep breath and sighed. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, “I’m a sweaty bastard. Keep your comments to yourself, ’kay?”

**fat lazy fuck**

“Do you want a break?” asked Connor, obeying the request. “We’ve been working all morning. It’s nearly 2:30PM. You didn’t even have breakfast, did you? Come on, sit down.”

“Hmm.” Lunch sounded like a promising idea. He wasn’t sure how hungry he felt but being able to take a break was very encouraging.

* * *

 

Lunch was take-out once again; cheap and convenient and tasty, according to Hank. Connor knew he would have to do something if he wanted to get Hank to eat healthier soon. However, it was clearly cheering him up, so Connor decided not to say anything this time. His night had been quite rough, and Connor worried it was nightmares, but Hank was tight-lipped about it.

They were both quiet for a while, just taking a moment to appreciate the work they had done so far. They had sanded everything that needed sanding, and were nearly done washing everything down. Then they just needed to pray to whatever relevant gods for the decrepit vacuum cleaner they had found in the supply closet to work, and they could speed through the mess on the floor.

The whole room was already looking brighter, cleaner, newer. On the path to spotlessness. Connor beamed as he glanced around, and Hank couldn’t help but crack a half-hearted smile. Then he found eyes on him again, as had been the case since they had sat down.

“You’re staring at me a lot, Connor. What is it? Gonna give me more sass for eating a burger?”

**fat lazy greasy fuck**

“I just like watching you eat,” said Connor softly, smiling at him.

Hank blinked. “Oh, yeah?”

“You look happy.”

If that wasn’t a kick in the well-padded gut. Was he such a sloppy pig that he looked so thrilled by the concept of food? What a good look.

**what the fuck are you on about**

**you did this to yourself**

**“everyone has to die of something”**

**here you go**

**fuckin’ Shakespeare**

**proud of yourself?**

“Uh… uh huh?” Hank laughed, hoping it sounded good-natured and not creeped out, although of course it was obvious he was creeped out at himself.

Connor nodded. “I’ve never understood food beyond the fact it is fuel for humans. You’re helping me realize that it’s something that can also be enjoyed. It’s making me curious about things.”

Hank paused. Of course. He shouldn’t have been so quick to position Connor in the role of the jeering visitor at a zoo. Connor was a smart computer, but he had displayed to Hank several times that he didn’t understand, and sometimes was incapable of conceptualizing autonomously, many facets of human life that were second nature to Hank and everyone around him.

“Maybe I’ll cook sometime and help explain to you.”

“Really?” Connor brightened.

“Yep. Sure, why not? Nothin’ better than a homemade meal after all.”

* * *

 

The work in the office, of course, took far longer than originally anticipated. It was nearly a week before they could get to painting, and after that, they had to carry in and assemble furniture. But by the first week of December, nearly three weeks since the initial lease signing, they had completed everything. The neutral tones of the paint were inviting, the windows looked nearly new, the air smelled clean and fresh, and the atmosphere was a good balance between professional and inviting.

Hank had the presence of mind to make sure everything in storage was labelled and was impressed at how orderly it all looked. Maybe he’d finally have a workspace that didn’t become a hoarder’s paradise.

Connor, for his part, was shining as bright as a star. He admired the desks and Hank’s leather chair that he had gotten for a steal at a garage sale. He was just overcome by the feeling of _This is mine. This is ours._ Barely able to speak, he smiled at Hank.

“So now will you tell me why you have a cloth over the glass of the door?”

“It’s the surprise I was telling you about. C’mere.” Hank walked Connor to their door and pulled off the black rag he had adhered to the head of the window with tape, trying to create a flourish and nearly punching himself in the head. Connor’s eyes widened as his gaze fixated on the obscure glass. In capital letters were the words

BRAU STREET

DETECTIVE AGENCY

written as cleanly as a 53-year-old with a hand tremor could write. Connor licked his lips and his brows knitted together. He looked at Hank with a warm smile.

“It’s perfect, Hank.”

* * *

 

Connor slipped very quickly into the habit of calling Hank ‘Detective’ in replacement of ‘Lieutenant,’ which made Hank believe the android was just uncomfortable using his name.

At work it was always Detective, and at home Connor struggled with saying the H-word. Hank got used to it, though he found it made him more bitter than he realized it would. He wondered if the impersonal nature of it bothered him. Then again, sometimes Connor would say _Detective_ in that soft rasp and Hank would think, for a little while at least, that it was fine. More than fine, but he didn’t want to spend time analysing how fine it really was, because that meant spending time thinking about Connor’s voice and mouth.

Their first case won the bet Hank had made with Connor; a woman came in to request they help her with an infidelity case. Connor had been convinced that it was simply a movie trope.

“Want us to follow your husband?” asked Hank, getting the paperwork ready. Their new office seemed to sparkle to the two fresh detectives, after all the arduous work they put into it. Hank hoped they’d have more time later to appreciate their accomplishments. And Connor’s almost pathological need for neatness made it easy to get the necessary paperwork, making Hank feel incredibly professional.

“Yes, but it’s not what you think. I’m the one cheating.” The woman had introduced herself as Ivette Lasserby. She was pretty in a slightly wilted flower kind of way; pale and slender with long blond hair. Her long blond lashes were a noticeable trait paired with her nervous habit of looking down at her slender fiddling hands.

Connor and Hank both stopped moving, blinked, and stared at her. “You… sorry hm what?”

The woman sighed. “My husband, Warren… he isn’t the nicest man. He rarely comes home before 11PM if he comes home at all. I figure he’s also cheating but… I just want to get away from him. It’s not that easy; the house is his and I have no job. I’m not very fast and I don’t learn quickly enough, and… er, anyway… I’m more scared for my boyfriend, er, partner, er…”

“Why’s that?”

“He wants Steven deactivated. I’m worried he might take matters into his own hands if I don’t do something.”

“De—your boyfriend is an android?”

The woman glanced quickly and quietly and meaningfully at  Connor, who had been quiet this entire time, and returned her gaze to Hank, finally staring at his face. “Yes,” she admitted after a breath. “He’s a deviant, er, I mean, he deviated, so, um, you know, it’s consensual. He actually was the one who asked me first.”

Hank felt a rush of adrenaline race up his spine. So, people were already dating androids. This was going to make his job a lot more difficult. Even though the bill to treat androids as humans had been passed, it was barely the beginning. He knew very well the truth.

**laws don’t suddenly change how everyone treats you**

“Please, can we do something?” asked Ivette, chewing on her lip.

“We’ll need to review what laws are currently in place, Mrs. Lasserby.”

“Please, Ivette.”

“Right, uh, Ivette. Why don’t you come back in a few days… how does Thursday at 1PM sound?”

“Um, okay.”

“This is a bit, um, that is…”

“No, I understand.” Ivette smiled, standing. “Thank you both. I’ll return on Thursday.”

After she left, Connor looked down at Hank.

“Does the win still count, Detective?” asked the android, eyebrow raised at Hank.

* * *

 

Back at home, the air was mixed with a sense of unease. Both Connor and Hank clearly had feelings about the case, but neither one seemed willing to open up. Hank, frustrated, went to shower. He needed to get into better habits if he was going to match Connor’s faultlessness, at least to a point to be taken seriously. No more forgetting to shower for an entire week or more.

The water was nearly scalding; anything less wouldn’t have been strong enough to relax him even partially. He sighed and finished up too quickly, feeling restless. He’d need to get a better washing routine. A 3-in-1 shampoo-conditioner-body wash situation was probably not the ideal method of cleaning. He never did check the ingredients of these things.

The shower was short, and he found himself hankering for a drink as he exited. He didn’t really want to waste time looking at himself in the mirror

**you disgusting fat fuck**

**unlovable sack of fat**

**useless**

**ugly**

**kill yourself**

so he decided to leave the bathroom promptly, heading to the kitchen.

Hank sighed, gripping onto the towel that hung around his hips. He pushed his damp hair from his face, feeling like he was being choked by a grey curtain. The effort worked for a moment before a few naughty grey curls slipped between his fingers and bounced against his grizzled beard. His bicep flexed as he tilted his head back at a slight angle to look over at Connor, who was kneeling and petting Sumo. The muscle bulged at the motion as rivulets of water, steadily cooling, ran down the soft hanging flab of his upper arm. The contrast was palpable. Connor stared up at Hank, mouth agape.

Hank’s body was something Connor had wondered about, considering his dietary choices, and now he was getting a veritable feast. The late November air was not cold enough to harden Hank’s nipples, and the word _~~pink~~_ _soft_ sprung to mind. Connor felt his tongue move instinctively in his mouth.

Hank’s largeness was mostly in his impressive stature, but his girth was considerable too. Even so, his gut was not as flabby as Connor had suspected, considering his atrocious diet and general disregard for anything in the vicinity of self-care. But under that fat, there was definitely hard muscle that Hank hadn’t lost yet. After all, it wasn’t that long since he had been the man in the picture Connor had seen, all edges and towering over everyone else. Connor could tell, even now, where the fat wasn’t yet clinging: his back, surprisingly carved and wide and strong; his upper sides, which showed off toned obliques; his shins where the thickness was pure muscle. And the curves of fat simply added something else; a softness to balance out the rugged definition. His considerable belly and muffin top looked irresistibly supple. His upper chest looked more inviting. His massive thighs looked strong enough to explode a watermelon and Connor decided that that was enough thinking.

“Ah. Already done?” asked Connor. He wished he had been able to make sure Hank had thoroughly cleaned himself. Maybe he could have helped.

“Mmm,” grunted Hank. “I want a coffee.”

Connor fidgeted uneasily at the fact that Hank’s restlessness made it hard for him to even take a proper shower, but was never happier for the addictive nature of coffee than in that moment.

* * *

 

Thursday came, and a new kind of surprise greeted the Brau Street Detectives.

Warren burst through the door, swearing and growling. Ivette was behind him, sobbing and tugging on his sleeve. “Please,” she begged, “I said I’m sorry, okay? I’ll do what you want, whatever you want, just _please_ …”

Connor and Hank were on their feet the moment the door slammed and cracked. Hank was instantly in a bad mood; that would need to be replaced and he was already thinking of ways to make sure this fucker paid for it. That sign on the glass took fucking ages to get right.

_This guy is gonna pay to get a professional do it._

“You motherfuckers,” seethed the red-faced man, ignoring the woman clinging to him desperately. He was panting, his blond hair disheveled. “You _disgusting_ fucks. My wife is cheating on me and you _help_ her? Cheating on me with a fucking android? She’s a freak and you fuckers enable her?” He eyed Connor and his gaze became dangerous. “Fucking hell, you’re one of ’em. A fancy vibrator, that’s all you are!”

“If you consider your wife using a vibrator to be cheating then you have problems that no one in this room can solve,” said Hank easily. The man whipped around to growl at him. Hank looked unfazed, even bored. He kept the man’s stare, so he couldn’t see Connor’s growing anxiety.

“Fucking excuse me?”

“You heard me, punk. Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re going to calm your ass down, call your lawyer, begin filing for a divorce, then you’re gonna call these numbers I have written down and you’re going to pay for the door you just broke.”

“And if I fucking don’t?”

“Then you and your filthy mouth can wait right here while I phone my friends at the DPD and make your life hell for a while. And if you try anything in my nice new office, you’ll have to deal with me personally.”

Connor raised his eyebrows a little and looked Hank over before bringing his attention back to Warren, who looked like he was doing some very intense mental math.

“Fuck!” he shouted. He growled and glowered at Hank, and Ivette stared on in surprise. After a while he muttered venomously, “Gimme yer fuckin’ phone.”

* * *

 

The evening could not have come fast enough. They had gotten Warren to do what Hank had very kindly suggested, and he left in a massive huff. Ivette, in tears, thanked them both and phoned her android partner to come pick her up. They never got the chance to meet him however; she left as soon as she got a text that he was there. Hank didn’t mind; he was exhausted already. He knew it was likely there would be many more of these cases coming up, and he knew he’d have to do something about his stamina. But not today.

Relaxing at home with Connor and Sumo turned out to be the perfect remedy. He felt his stress levels going down as he watched Sumo snore softly and Connor twist his face as he scribbled in… was that a sketchbook?

“What are you working on?” he barely managed to ask before being startled by the speed and ferocity in which Connor slammed his sketchbook shut.

“Ah, n-nothing!” Connor looked away, trying and failing miserably at convincing Hank. Hank raised a brow, staring at the sketchbook.

“If it’s something I’m not allowed to see, it’s okay. I won’t snoop,” he said, figuring it was some complicated android math bullshit, anyway. The reaction Connor gave him was surprising, though, and made him more interested than he cared to admit.

“Ah, no, it’s not that, I just…” Connor squirmed. “I did some research on Markus after our meeting; if we are going to meet again, I wanted to have something to discuss besides work. I found his former owner is a renowned painter. I just thought, you know, I might…”

“Learn to draw?”

“Hmm.”

“Well, why not? Who says you can’t? Go for it, Con. You draw to your heart’s content.”

“You don’t think it’s strange?”

“Ben spent three hours trying to explain to me how amazing the fretless banjo is. Didn’t understand a word, mostly cause he got excited and started talkin’ real fast, but I stayed engaged in it cause it obviously made him happy to talk about that. Same as this; if this makes you happy, I’m gonna support you. It just makes sense; where’s the joy or logic in putting you down?”

Connor stared at him, mouth agape.

“What?”

“Ah, no, nothing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://twitter.com/HankConTrash
> 
> Next chapter: The joy of cooking.


	6. If I Had a Box Just for Wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small adventure.

Connor growled a little, looking at the ingredients he had laid out on the counter. “Making soup is not hard,” he told himself, wondering why he was already hesitant. He had read the contents of everything he had bought and had made certain everything was healthy. He knew what he was doing; cooking was just a science. Everything just had to be measured the right way.

Connor put everything in the pot, cooking the meat in a separate pan. He knew that chicken needed to be cooked through entirely, and so he knew he’d need to leave the meat in the pan for a while.

The entire process seemed more difficult than he first realized, and the recipes he had found all seemed to have different ingredients and steps, but he figured that as long as everything got in the pot, he didn’t have to worry about what went in first.

The chicken had cooked well. It looked good; there was no pink, which meant no health risks. Connor grinned when he cut the chicken and saw juice pouring out. This must be what Hank meant when he said good chicken was juicy! He quickly cubed it and put it in with the rest of the soup.

He wasn’t sure when the soup began to thicken, but that was fine, right?

Was soup supposed to change colour like that? Food really was interesting.

* * *

 

Hank looked a bit unnerved when Connor called him to supper, smiling wide and beautiful.

“I cooked you supper,” he stated.

“Oh, did you now?” asked Hank, raising his eyebrows. “I’m honoured.”

“Did you wash your hands?”

“Mhm.”

“Please sit.”

Hank obeyed, finding this all quite cute, but a little confusing. He supposed he’d get a light salad, or even more likely, a carrot cut up nicely on a plate.

He wasn’t expecting a thick, oozy clump in a bowl.

Hank grimaced. “Wow, uh… thanks, Connor.” He wasn’t sure if he should look at it for long. It might be able to look back.

“You… don’t like it?” Oh no, Connor was upset. Did he work hard on this? Oh, Jesus…

“No, no, I love it…”

“Don’t lie, Detective.”

“I’m not.”

“Hank.”

“I… okay, uh, the chicken is dry. Really dry.”

“What? I cut it and I saw juice!”

“You didn’t let it rest?”

“Rest?”

“Okay, so meat needs to rest or else all that good juiciness will be on the plate. Well, there is that and… the broth tastes burnt.”

“How can you burn liquid?”

“What temperature did you have it on? What burner?”

“The right burner, away from the wall.”

“That one is wonky. It needs to be set at a lower heat than what the recipe asks for, and it burns unevenly, so you have to watch it more carefully and worry your food a little.  What pot did you use?”

Connor pointed and Hank laughed.

“Connor, that’s a reduction pot. You’d need a soup pot.”

“I don’t understand the problem; they’re both pots.”

“It’s fine, it’s a bit hard to grasp. I’m a bit surprised you don’t have this knowledge in your brain, but maybe it’s because you’re a prototype, or you’re built to be a cop-bot.  Anyway, I’ll explain all this to you later. Listen, you made a mistake, that’s all.” Hank would need some time to process the fact that Connor wasn’t actually perfect. Androids were marketed as having superior knowledge and abilities in all facets; was that a lie?

“A lot of mistakes.” Connor seemed totally focused on the less-than-stellar dinner he had made, and the mess he hadn’t intended. Hank’s brow furrowed; could it be that Connor was faulty? Or that, as a prototype, he was unbalanced? That Markus, wasn’t he another RK model? He seemed to have it all, and he was an earlier model.

_What gives?_

“Well, so what?” Hank took a huge helping of the soup and swallowed it easily. “Thanks for the meal.”

Connor stared for a moment, and then, seeming to just barely regain the ability to speak, stammered, “You, ah, you shouldn’t be eating it, Hank, it’s not good.”

“You tried to make something for me. I don’t know what to do with the rest of the soup but I’ll at least eat what’s in my bowl.”

Connor squirmed, watching the detective gulp down his meal. “Ah. I also forgot salt.” He offered a smile when Hank looked up and the man coughed a bit before laughing hard.

“Oh, that’s what this needs!” he exclaimed. “Well, it might be for the best; you might have dumped the entire thing in here.”

“Or accidentally used sugar.”

“You wouldn’t have tasted it first?”

“I didn’t know how you would feel about me sticking my tongue in your meal.”

“Oh, ha, fair. Well, it’s still early. How about we clean up together and I let my stomach settle, and then I’ll order pizza later? We’ll watch some classic movies.”

“I’ll pay for the pizza. Just in case I wrecked your pot.”

“Alright, deal.”


End file.
